False Hope

During his first presidential campaign, Barack Obama said, "There is nothing false about hope."  I loved that quote.  Just the very idea that hope itself is a reason.  But, that was eight years ago.  When he said that, we thought the progressive political agenda was on the rise.  When he said that, I thought my marriage would last until my death.  

One night, my husband came home and said to me, "I'm not happy."  My insides turned to water, then to acid.  I put shields up just in time to keep my face from burning away.  Over the next few weeks, as he edged further from me in the bed, as his wedding ring mysteriously disappeared, as I lost the ability to make eye contact with him, hope shriveled.  It didn't die, but my little thing with feathers molted and went into hiding for a long time.  

The Ex did nothing to help it.  It hurt at the time, but now I see it for what it was -- a kindness.  He made his exit plan and followed his timeline.  Out of the condo in one month, out of the marriage in six.   I only had to nurse hope back into being one time, and when I finally did, I could focus on things that were real and possible.  Things that were not him. 

I am reminded of this painful kindness as one of my friends finds herself involved with a man who is separated from his wife.  They are not yet divorced.  The explanation is that they have to wait 2 years in Illinois to get the no-fault divorce.  And the man feels sorry for his wife who moved here with him and doesn't really have any other friends.  He still talks to her daily and hangs out with her.  He invites her to  his celebrations, all while he is plowing through his post-relationship crazy phase.  He is filming himself in bed with women, and using that footage to flirt with even more women.  

My friend is uncomfortable with the situation.  She is right to be so.  Maybe this man thinks he is doing his wife a kindness by staying around to be her friend, but what he is doing is false hope in action. I am sorry, President Obama, but everything about this hope is false.  This woman's hope is dying the death of a thousand tiny cuts.  Once this is done, there will be no pieces big enough to put it back together again. Much kinder to just leave her.  Leave her entirely alone for a while.  Maybe it will hurt more at first, but wouldn't you rather recover from one deep, clean wound than from a thousand smal slices that leave your tissues tattered and unrecognizable? 

Even in my year of heartbreak, I saw little things to be grateful for.  This is another one -- that the wound was clean, quick, surgical.  That the skin around it was intact enough to join together again.  That hope was damaged and displaced, but never false.  

Decree Day Thoughts, Part 2

I dressed for battle.  I called on the spirits of all the warlike nations of history as I selected and put on my clothes.  When I pulled my blood red sweater over my head, I swear I heard it clang shut.  All the sensory receptors of my skin felt blocked by a thin layer of leather and chain maille.  I prepared for war.  I put on light makeup, but the picture in my mind was a Maori leader's dark, swirling tattoos.  I clipped my hair away from my face, and in my mind I clicked shut the chin strap of a battle helmet. 

 I put the necessary items in my purse: keys, wallet, phone, letter from his attorney, jumble of toilet paper in lieu of tissues.  I slipped my purse over my shoulder, and it became a crossbow, cocked and loaded with one deadly shot.  All of my steps were heavy, meant to make the very earth shake before me.

I dressed for battle.  I prepared for war.  All of this, even though our parting was as civil as these things can be.  It was a polite conversation held across a chasm via smoke signals.  No shots fired, ladders lowered, trebuchets loaded with flaming cannonballs so we could burn each other to the ground.  It was not a war.  It was a surgical separation provided at a hospital with the most compassionate care.  Because I prepared for the blunt force trauma of war, and not the gentle final separation of two people who were already apart, I felt lost at the end of the hearing.  

Where do you put the battle gear when there is no war to fight? I stood tall under the weight of my armor, my weapons, my full-face tattoo.  I walked away with my heavy steps and dropped my gear, piece by piece, until I only had my hurt and anger, cradled in my heart, swaddled with relief.  I dressed for battle to go into a birth.  I prepared for war to witness a soft, gentle death.

Bearing gifts

Why do men think women want to know what it's like to have a penis?  Here's the latest blast of text messages from The Dong, who has just offered to buy me a strap-on:

You like that idea?
You'd be able to pretend you have a cock.
That's naughty.
And I like it.

In case you're counting, that's four separate texts in a row.  This is actually subdued for The Dong. (Who earned this name by virtue of his most endearing asset.) If you are getting the idea that I am a bit annoyed by all this, you are correct.  The Dong is not a person I would be interested in spending time with if I weren't in the middle of my post-divorce slutty phase.  It is only because I am, as my friend said, "penis shopping," that I am even answering him.  The Dong is only interested in one thing from me as well, but for him that involves this sort of foolishness.

I'm willing to try the strap-on because, A) I've never done it before, B) I don't have to spend any money or time to get the thing, and C) Post-divorce slutty phase.  But I am really not okay with the assumption that I am interested in having a penis.  I'm just fine with my lady bits.  In fact, I am more fine with them than I ever have been. They are lovely and awesome.  Why don't we instead talk about how The Dong can pretend to have a vagina?  And while we're at it (or before we're at it,) let's just drop all references to naughty and dirty where two consenting, grown-ass people are involved.

I am finding that there is a whole lot of childishness in the world of fully sexual adults.

I Smell the Ativan

"I had a panic attack last week."

"I think I'm going to fire my psychiatrist."

"I just get really anxious in new situations."

"When I get nervous, the stutter gets worse."

This is just a sample of what I've been hearing on dates recently.  It has been a while since I identified that I am attracted to men with anxiety issues.  But, in addition, I think I can smell them.  To me it must smell like chocolate, because apparently I can't resist it.  

I am not trying to find this type of man.  In fact, I hope I am actively trying to avoid them. Apparently, though, I can smell the Ativan and it makes me a little nuts.  Where does one go to rewire the circuits of desire? Or at least to become attracted to the smell of emotional stability?

Heartbreak Tour Guide

I realized while in the elevator the reason I am sad.  I am sad because I want that.  I want to meet someone who thinks enough of me to cut off intimacy with other people.  I want to be the basket for all of someone's eggs.

Let me start at the beginning.  Several months ago, I met a man who quickly became my heartbreak tour guide.  I trusted him enough to let him be the second man I had ever had sex with, and he trusted me enough to be truthful about the mistakes he had made in relationships.  It was clear at the outset that this was not the last relationship for either of us -- in fact, that this was barely a relationship at all in the way most people understand it. 

He taught me how to be unashamed about wanting to be sexual.  He took me through the lingering pain and helped me see that it was normal, that I was normal.  Like the best tour guides, he let me discover the most hidden places for myself, then he explained to me what they were, and what was waiting on the other side.  I hope, for my part, I taught him that there are kind women who have no agenda other than to be loving towards people.

When I got back from Costa Rica, he was different.  Not distant, exactly, but wanting a break from sex.  He explained it as something that happens occasionally, which I thought sounded normal.  In a small corner of my mind, I wondered if he had met someone.  Then, he sent me the Facebook message.  It was a kind, honest message, calling me a friend and confirming that he had indeed met someone who he felt he had a "real future" with.  I said I was happy for him, and that is the truth.  Then I texted the Id and told her I was both hurt and relieved.  That is also the truth.  My heartbreak tour guide has moved beyond being expert in heartbreak, and towards what I truly hope will be lifelong happiness.

But.  Still. No one wants to be the one receiving the relationship change message.  No one wants to be rejected, even when it was always inevitable.  Once he said to me that I would be done with him before he was done with me.  He was wrong. (It makes me smile to write that -- I told him he was right so many times.)  What hurts me most, though, and why I am once again crying in public, is simple jealousy.  I want that.  Not him, That.  I want the person who will think enough of me to focus on building a life with me.  

The Id also said it was good for me to focus on just being me for a while.  Bless her gentle heart, she saw that I was distracting myself from myself, even as I was learning how to heal.  She is right.  Sometimes, you just have to wave goodbye to the tour guide and discover the trail on your own.

Decree Day Thoughts, Part 1

Here was my first thought on entering the courtroom: Why are all family law attorneys so short?

I took whatever I could to calm myself that day, and the first thing was giggling about all the tiny attorneys who could barely see over the clerk's bench to check in.  They looked like children at an old-fashioned movie ticket window. 

The second thing was touching my middle fingers and thumbs together into a loose circle and breathing. 

Here is what I wish had happened during the prove-up (which, by the way, is a ridiculous name for the thing):

Judge: What are you doing with your hands?

Me: Meditating, your honor.

Judge: Meditating? 

Me: Yes, your honor.

Judge: Ms. Sturgeon, are you aware that this is a court hearing?

Me: Yes, your honor.

Judge: Why are you meditating instead of focusing on the matter at hand?

Me: Excuse me, your honor, but meditating is helping me to focus on the matter at hand.

Judge: How is that?

Me: By managing my emotions.

Judge: You seem very stoic. Can you explain that?

Me: Your honor, I do not care to display or share any part of my emotional life with the petitioner.

Judge: Why not?

Me: Because I do not trust him with it.

I suppose the question right after the decree was, who gets to share my emotional life? I worry that I will never develop the habit of sharing it, and I will fall into the same frustrating close distance that we had for the last few years of the marriage.  Shortly after the decree, I read that women tend to blame their partners for a breakup, while men tend to blame themselves.  I want to recognize and own my part in all of this.  After all, my actions and my future are the only things I can really do anything about.  All the rest is noise. Crying into the downpour.

Never Have I Ever

My life now is like one long, drawn-out game of Never Have I Ever, and I am getting wasted.  Never have I ever paid property taxes on a condo I own free and clear.  Never have I ever gone an entire week without shutting the bathroom door.  Never have I ever received payment just for being married once.  Never have I ever left my spouse.  Never have I ever had my heart broken so thoroughly and so well that I had to grow an entirely new one in its place.  Never have I ever given up on a marriage.

It is that last one which still rankles, and will until the end of days. Never have I ever given up.  I got indifferent.  I took for granted.  I hid and stayed silent, but I did not give up.  Now, when it would be in my best interest to give up, I'm not sure how.  I know how to look like it, but the doing of it is difficult.  Never have I ever.

Two weeks post decree, I felt like a half-finished puzzle where the table got shaken and overturned.  I thought a picture was emerging and I had everything at least organized.  Blue with blue. Red with red.  Yellow with yellow.  But it wasn't organized and there was that same helpless, irrational rage you feel when you're 5 years old and all your toys are gone for no reason.  I didn't understand why everything was different all of the sudden.  I had been preparing for months.  I was ready.  Who the fuck turned over the table in the middle of the night? And changed out all the pieces? And took the picture away?

And this, I realize, is where I am really Mapless.  It's not my relationship with him, it's my relationship with myself.  Never have I ever lived completely on my own as an adult, and that's the truth.  I look at my profiles on dating sites and wonder who it is I am writing about.  Some woman half in and half out of a door.  I can identify part of her as me, but the rest is obscured.

Meanwhile, I am slowly ticking off milestones in my ongoing game of Never Have I Ever.  I hope that I am the one of us having the most outrageous sex.  Because never have I ever been curious and unashamed . . .